


Stories Untold

by gallifreyslostson



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyslostson/pseuds/gallifreyslostson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reeling from the loss of Lucie Miller, the Doctor decides to use the chameleon arch in a desperate attempt to leave the pain behind.  But even forgotten stories have a way of breaking though.</p><p>Beta'd by the amazing aeonish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Once upon a time..._

It’s not until the Monk is gone, and the Doctor is spinning them back into the Vortex, hurtling back to a place to drop Susan off, that she even tries to speak again.

“Grandfather--”

He cuts her off, eyes unfocused as he stares into the middle distance.  “Do you remember that time, a long, long time ago, we were escaping from a bunch of murderous cavemen--you, me, and Barbara--and that wounded man was holding us up, remember that? Just for one moment, I entertained the possibility--I picked up a rock, and I--”

“But you didn’t do it, did you?” she interjects, putting a hand on his arm, and he looks down at it.  “You didn’t kill that man.”

“Only because Chesterton stopped me,” he replies dismissively, moving away from her.  “Direct action, that’s what that was. Maybe I should be more like that now. Maybe I’ve gone soft.”

“I know how much Lucie meant to you,” she offers soothingly, but it only frustrates him more, this insistence on past tense, on comfort for an event that shouldn’t have occurred to begin with, that he could, conceivably, stop from happening at all.

“How much she _means_ to me,” he corrects, starting to pace.  “Time is relative, isn’t it? I am a Time Lord, what does time mean to me? It’s not fixed.  Our people made up all those rules and regulations, and for what?”

“To prevent chaos!”

“How much chaos would it bring to go back and save Lucie Miller?” he asks, spinning around toward her.  “At the point of impact, just snatch her into the TARDIS, what would that do except save one of the noblest inhabitants of the universe?”

“You know you mustn’t do that!” she replies, bringing a hand up to her chest, just between her two hearts.  “You know it in your heart.”

“I don’t think I do anymore,” he tells her honestly, shrugging a little as weariness sets in to the bone.  “I don’t think I know anything anymore.”

_Except that I feel very, very old...and very, **very** tired._

She looks up as the engines groan, signaling their landing, and he moves once more to the console.  “What are you going to do?”

There’s so many things he wants to do, so many things he knows he mustn’t, so many small moments that he’d like to change, damned the blasted fragile Web of Time.  He knows he should have learned his lesson on the R101, how much one life means, how one person being alive who wasn’t before can wreak havoc on the universe, but even the thought of that only makes him wish more fervently to go back, to save C’rizz from himself, to keep Charley from abandoning him like he knew she should...to save Lucie.  Broken, fragile, _glorious_ Lucie, who gave her life because the Daleks once again threatened everything.  Because he knows they’ll be back, knows _that_ in his heart...but she won’t.

“You’d better come with me,” he says finally.

“Why?” she asks, giving him a confused look.

“To stop me,” he says, rounding the console toward her, making her back up a step to the door.  “Curb me.  Look after me. Don’t you want to make sure your bad old grandfather doesn’t take the laws of time into his own hands?”

He’s frightening her, he can see it.  He’s frightening himself.

“I’m not sure I like what’s happening to you, Grandfather.”

 _Oh, Susan_ , he thinks unhappily.  _Neither do I.  But you have never deserved it._

Because hadn’t him coming back done exactly what he’d set out to avoid when he left her?  When he locked the TARDIS and ignored her cries, knowing she’d never leave him if given the choice?  He’d left to allow her to have a life, a good life, with a man willing to give it to her, knowing that her mad grandfather would only keep her from it.  And then he’d shown up again, and destroyed it all.  He’s left her with nothing, no husband, no son...what sort of figure would he be for her if he dragged her down into his madness?

“Yes, it’s probably best you leave me alone,” he says slowly, stepping around her for the TARDIS door, and holding it open for her her as he looks around at the desecrated landscape.  The anger fires up again, the fury at the cost of the persistent existence of these blighted creatures cutting through the depression.  It’s the sort of quenchless rage that would allow him to let the entire universe burn if only it would rid him of the last of these monsters...or save just one of his friends.  “I suppose the universe was bound to do this to me eventually, wasn’t it?  A universe that contains such unrefined evil as the Daleks, or wanton amorality as the Monk, it was bound to push me over the edge.”

He looks down at her, at the warring fear and concern on her face, rippling over an undertow of grief.  He’d caused all of it.  Him...and the Daleks.  He puts a hand on her cheek, thumb moving gently over her skin briefly before he turns back for the interior of the TARDIS.

“Where will you go?” she asks, and he pauses to look back at her, then lifts his gaze to the horizon.

“To the edge,” he tells her.  “And maybe beyond.”

He gives her only the briefest of last glances before retreating into the TARDIS, nearly setting a new record in the time it takes to dematerialize from her life.  In the Vortex, he stares at the screen a long moment before playing Lucie’s recording again, smiling at her tone even as it tortures his very soul.  When it stops he listens again, and again, and again, until he can insert his own words into the scenario she gives, knowing how right she was, knowing that’s exactly how it would go...if only he’d been given the chance.

oOoOo

_Once upon a time, a young man stole a ship, determined to live a life of adventure.  But over time, the adventure he’d so desperately sought wore him down, it gutted him, until all that remained was a scarred, dead eyed monstrosity, a grotesque caricature of a man.  His tally of losses to gains was painfully unbalanced, and he grew tired, exhausted to the point of agony by even the thought of going on.  So he didn’t._

oOoOo

Rose Tyler punches in the code for a fizzy drink in the vending machine in the break room while rolling her neck.  Another day in hell, with uppity people who thought they were better than her because of which side of the register they happened to be on.  But, yeah, of course, customer’s always right, which means she’s got the privilege of getting shouted at by them and her boss on the regular.  Lucky her.

She’d laughed that morning when her mum told her the job at the shop was giving her airs and graces, because there’s nothing quite like being a shopgirl to remind you how very _low_ shopgirls really rank in society.  And if you ever forget, you’re sure to be reminded in about five minutes time.

She stoops to retrieve her drink, slumping against the wall as she opens it and takes a swig.  It’s not like she’s got a _bad_ life.  Just...not the sort of thing she’d really pictured when she was a kid.  She’s got a job, and a boyfriend, and a place to live and food and all that.  It’s just that even on the good days, it sort of all feels like she’s going through the motions, smiling ‘cause she’s supposed to be smiling, even while just sort of...drifting.

On the bad days, she feels ready to drown.

“Oi, Tyler!”  Frank, one of those delightful people who seem to get off on being above someone else, strides into the break room and trains his beady little rat eyes on Rose.  “You’re supposed to be out on the floor.  You’re not paid to muck about in here.”

“I’ve got ten minutes left,” she tells him, not moving.

“Is that right?” he asks, then looks up at the clock on the wall.  With a sneering glance at her, he reaches up and moves the minute hand about three numbers ahead.  “Would you look at that?  Now you’re five minutes late.  Get back on the floor.  Those clothes aren’t gonna fold themselves, are they?”

“Certainly not gonna get folded by you,” Rose mutters, putting her drink in the staff fridge, automatically making a bet with herself on whether it’ll actually be there when she’s off.

“Sorry?” Frank asks, crossing his arms.

“Nothing,” she says, moving past him onto the floor.

Another few hours drag by, with folding and helping people that only argue with the answers she gives them and a text message from Mickey that he’ll be at the pub tonight with his mates to watch the match.  They were supposed to go out, but by the time Rose sees the message, she doesn’t even have the energy to argue.  To top it all off, Frank is apparently determined to ruin every moment possible of the day, smirking as he lectures her about punctuality, and making her late for her bus.  She runs for it, shouting, but it’s already taking off, and she ends up jogging to a halt and watching it resignedly.

Rose blows her bangs out of her face and glances around, debating her options, and finally decides to just walk, hoping it might help her work out some of her frustration.

One day, she tells herself for probably the millionth time, she’ll actually sort out what she wants to do with her life.  One day, she’ll go back to school, get a better job, get a high class flat somewhere...it’s just that every time she thinks about it, she gets completely overwhelmed by all the uncertainties.  It all sounds great, in a vague, foggy way, but the minute she actually tries to focus on the details, she completely loses her grip.  Her mum says it’s ‘cause she wants to do too much, she can’t settle down.  But really, where’s the fun in _that_ , when she knows there’s got to be more than getting up, going to work, coming home, going to bed?  Apart, of course, from all the little things like paying bills and feeding yourself.

She’s lost in her thoughts, walking home on autopilot, so she doesn’t even notice the man straining with a large box before she walks straight into him.  The box flies out of his arms, and she goes down with it, the corner of it digging painfully into her hip and the pavement scraping up the palm of her hand as she lands with a thud.

“Jesus, are you alright?” the man asks, quickly stooping to help her up with a hand on her arm.  Rose looks up to find a pair of pale blue eyes watching her in concern, set inside...well, a rather nice face really, framed by short, dark curls.

“Yeah, sorry, god, I’m such a klutz,” she laughs self-consciously, stepping back and dusting off her pants.  She winces a little at the sting in her hand, and looks down to find blood oozing from her skinned hand.  A quick glance at her jeans, and yep, there’s blood on her trousers.  Day just keeps getting better.  She sighs and looks up at the man she’d nearly bowled over.  “Sorry.  I wasn’t really paying attention.  Um.  I hope there wasn’t anything valuable in there.”

“Immensely,” he says, but doesn’t even spare the box a glance as he reaches for her hand.  “But not particularly fragile.  May I?”  She holds up her hand, too surprised to really protest, and he gives her an unhappy hum as he brushes his thumb gently over the scrape.  “I’ve got a first aid kit inside, I’m sure.”

“It’s fine,” she says, pulling her hand from his grasp.  She clears her throat awkwardly, resisting the urge to shove her hands in her back pockets and get more blood on her jeans.  She glances up at the sign above the man’s head to avoid his still concerned frown, reading it aloud.  “Blue Box Books.  They’re books,” she realizes, glancing down at the box.

“Mhm.  And thus, rather sturdy, capable of withstanding a multitude of collisions with small blonde torpedoes.”

“Well, isn’t that...handy,” she manages, smiling at him when she sees his lips twitch.

“Extremely,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Since this is clearly a dangerous neighborhood.”

“Right,” she says, tongue poking out a little from her teeth.  “I haven’t seen this place before.  You just move in?”

“Mmm, yes, two days ago,” he tells her, glancing up at the sign before returning his gaze to hers.

“You hiring?” she asks, laughing even though she’s only half-joking, at best.

“It’s a small shop,” he says slowly.  “I’m reasonably certain I can handle it.”

“It was a joke,” she says, shaking her head dismissively, then holds out a hand.  “I’m Rose.  Rose Tyler.”

He takes her hand carefully, avoiding the scrap she’d managed to forget about while talking to him, and shakes it briefly.  “John Smith.”

“What, seriously?” she asks as he releases her, and he arches an eyebrow.

“Yes.  For it to be a common name, there need to be people actually called ‘John Smith’ once in a while.”

“Yeah, obviously,” she says, shrugging a little.  “I’ve just...never actually met one.”

“Well then,” he says, smiling at her, “welcome to the majority statistic, Rose Tyler.”

“Thanks,” she says with a laugh.  She bites her lip, glancing down the street.  “I should probably head home.”

“Of course,” he says, stepping back to give her room to pass.  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tyler...if a bit unfortunate in circumstance.”

“Yeah...you too,” she says, not quite sure what to make of him.  He sounds too posh to be opening up a shop ‘round here, but to each his own.

“You should stop back sometime soon,” he says as she walks away, and she pauses, turning back.  “Take a chance to see my inventory when it’s slightly less...boxy and liable to run into you.”

“I ran into it,” she reminds him with a smile.

“Not the way I saw it,” he says with a shrug.  “It’s your word against theirs.  And I’ll let you in on a secret...they don’t talk much.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, shaking her head a little when he grins at her.  She glances up at the sign again.  “Yeah, I’ll try to come by again.”

“I look forward to it,” he says.  “Have a good evening, Miss Tyler.  Watch out for runaway boxes.”

“Will do,” she says with a laugh, turning away again.  She glances back as she rounds the corner to see him lifting the box; even from here, she can see the fabric of his shirt straining around his biceps, and she looks away again quickly, hurrying home, suddenly feeling a whole lot more optimistic.

oOoOo

_The problem, of course, is that the man was still too proud to simply stop existing, and although he had lost his last real shreds of hope, there was still a minute particle that remained, so small even he didn’t see it: the hope that he’d find a way to restore it._

_So he hid, so well he couldn’t even find himself.  He buried himself inside a false past, a false persona, a false race._

oOoOo

It’s a few days before John sees Rose again, long enough for him to tell himself he’s being ridiculous, she probably won’t be back.  She was just a girl who ran into him while walking home.  A very attractive girl.  With a gorgeous smile.  In any case, he’s put her out of his mind enough that his mouth falls open when she walks in the door, glancing around as her eyes adjust to the gloom after the surprisingly sunny outdoors.  A young man follows her inside grumpily, but John pays him little mind as he darts around the counter.

“Miss Tyler!  Pleasure to see you again.  How’s your hand?”

She smiles up at him and holds out her hand.  “Much better.  Have a first aid kit of my own.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, holding onto her wrist as he leans in to inspect her hand.  “I’d hate for such a grievous injury to go untreated.”

They share a grin, and the young man just behind her clears his throat, making her jump and pull her hand away.  “Sorry, this is Mickey.  Mickey Smith.”

“The boyfriend,” Mickey says, holding out a hand.  John arches an eyebrow as he takes the young man’s hand and feels him squeeze tighter than necessary.  It’s an amateur display, one that John would likely win, but he only matches Mickey’s pressure as he shakes his hand before pulling away.

“It’s a pleasure,” he says, hoping he sounds far more genuine than he feels.  It shouldn’t really surprise him that Rose has a boyfriend, although he couldn’t really understand why she’d be with--well, nevermind.  “Anything I can interest you in?”

“The exit,” Mickey mutters, but Rose smacks him in the stomach with the back of her hand without even turning her head.

“I dunno...do you have anything interesting?” she asks John.

“They’re books,” he says blankly.  “They’re all interesting.”  She raises her eyebrows, smirking a little, and he shakes his head.  “Rose, books can take you to magical, faraway place, let you battle monarchs and dragons, perform spells, save kingdoms.  And when it’s over, they’re waiting for you, ready to do it all again, battling at your side.  What could possibly be more interesting than that?”

Rose is looking at him with a tongue-touched smile, leaning forward a little with her thumbs hooked in her back pockets.  She starts to answer, and he leans forward a little, when Mickey interrupts.

“Might try getting a girlfriend, mate,” he suggests, grabbing a book at random and opening it, twisting it around as he looks at it.  “Far cry from dusty old books.”

“Yes, well,” John says, coughing awkwardly as he cuts a look at the other man.  “There’s a lot to be learned about that in books too.  Manners, for instance.”

Mickey looks up at him sharply, snapping the book in his hand closed, and Rose hurriedly tugs him away, telling John that they’ll just look around for a bit, if that’s alright.  John takes a deep breath, then returns to the book he’d been looking at on the counter, an old Shakespeare quarto he’d managed to get his hands on and was bent on perusing before some museum or something tried to snatch it from him.

The couple spend several minutes perusing the shelves before Rose calls for him.  He looks up curiously, leaving the counter to find her frowning up at the shelves while Mickey stands by looking bored.

“Something I can help you with?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Rose replies, turning to him.  “D’you actually have a system here, or is it just sort of...everything piled together at random?”

“It’s not random,” he tells her, glancing at the shelves when she gestures at them.  “ _I_ certainly know where everything is.”

“Yeah, okay,” Rose replies, looking suspicious.  “But right here, yeah?  You’ve got a book on Norse mythology sandwiched between Charles Dickens and what looks to be a repair guide for a PC circa 1985.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, might make it a bit difficult for actual _customers_ to find things,” Rose points out.

“Ah.”  John looks at the shelves again, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “Little known fact, Miss Tyler.  There’s a certain breed of bibliophile that opens a used and rare books shop, and it’s really for the sole purpose of housing their absurdly expanded collection.  We’re the sort who will stop only at actual physical force to keep people from actually _purchasing_ our books.”

“Is that right?” she asks, giving him another one of those sunny, tongue-touched smiles, which he returns with a nod and a hum of assent.  “Well, that’s...great for you, I’m sure.  But, thing is, to actually _keep_ the shop where you house your ‘expanded collection’, you actually have to sell books once in a while to pay the rent.  And you can’t do that if customers can’t find anything.”

“A valid point,” he agrees, with some reluctance.  “Is this where you ask me if I’m hiring again?”

“Nope,” she says.  “This is where I tell you that you _should_ be hiring.  You can’t get this all sorted on your own.  And tell you that I might be interested in the position.”

“Is that so?” he asks, smirking at her.

“Hold on,” Mickey cuts in, and John arches an eyebrow at him, sincerely wishing he’d just _go away_.  “You’re telling me you’re gonna leave the posh job at Heinriks for a dusty bleeding bookshop with a--". John narrows his eyes at Mickey, who clears his throat awkwardly.  "With this bloke?"

"Yeah, think I am," she says, still looking at John.  "If you're offering, course.  Come on, Mick... Heinrich's isn't posh, it's a nightmare, and Frank just makes it worse.  Might be nice to work in a place where I'm not made to feel like something someone stepped in."

"Maybe if you learned to ignore it and not shoot your mouth off--"

"Oh, please, like you're much better!". They stare at each other for a moment, then Rose turns back to John.  "Sorry. We'll just... Go."

John had been silent during the exchange, standing by with a growing irritation for Mickey and this faceless Frank character.  As she moves past him, though, he clears his throat awkwardly.

"You know, chaos theory states that the universe is constantly moving toward entropy," he says, and she looks up at him with a frown.  He shrugs and nods at the stacks.  "I'm just saying, you're going to have to fight universal laws to organize this.  I can't be held responsible for any tears in time and space that result.  And I'm going to have to sell an extra book or two to pay you, so I'll likely be grumpy.  Just so you understand the incredible sacrifices I'm making."

She'd started smiling as he spoke, and is now giving him a full blown grin.  "You're giving me a job?"

"Yes," he tells her.  "It'll break the monotony, at the very least."

Rose lets out a little squeal of delight and throws her arms around his neck, and John stiffens in surprise before gingerly putting one arm around her waist.  Mickey's mouth is hanging open when she releases John hurriedly with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” she says, stepping back.  “That was...just...miles from appropriate, wasn’t it?”

“That’s alright,” he says.  “I like hugs.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Mickey snarks, glaring at him.

Rose ignores him.  “When can I start?”

“Monday,” John says.  “Eight thirty.”

“I’ll be here,” she tells him with a grin as Mickey tugs her toward the door.

“I look forward to it,” he replies honestly, lifting a hand when she waves cheerfully before leaving the shop.

He really has no need for help in the shop, but the way Rose had talked about her job made him instantly want to offer another option.  The fact that Mickey the idiot apparently didn’t like the idea was only a benefit, really...none of which boded particularly well for John.

oOoOo

_Since his life had become a smoking wasteland of desolation and decay, haunted by innumerable ghosts and littered with his mistakes, he made a new one, and the man he’d been retreated into dark, showing himself only in the darkest parts of the night.  But, after all, a nightmare is just a dream, and a dream is just fog, easily burned away by morning, and so this new man, this hopeful man...lived on._

oOoOo

Rose leaves early Monday morning, not having been able to sleep much the night before.  Between the excitement of a new job, the triumph of leaving the old one, and the _days_ of arguing with Mickey over the decision, she’d been too wired.  She knows she’ll pay for it later, but she’ll worry about that then.  So long as she doesn’t accidentally fall asleep against one of the bookshelves, it should be fine.

She gets to the store at eight, wondering about the chances of John already being there.  Slim, probably, but she presses her nose against the glass on the door to peer inside anyway.  She’s surprised to find him already inside, behind the counter with his back to the door.  She taps on the glass, and he whirls around, a grin spreading on his face when he sees her before he hurries over to open the door.

“You’re early,” he remarks, holding the door open for her to enter.

“Yeah, well, wanted to make a good impression on my new boss,” she teases as he closes the door and locks it again.

“Better me than the merchandise...again,” he says, winking at her.  The wink does strange things to her, making her breath catch a little and face flush as she looks away hurriedly.  “Tea?” he asks, apparently oblivious, and she pulls in a deep breath before nodding with a tight smile.

“Why’re you here so early?” she asks, following him to the office behind the sales counter.  “What time did you leave your place?”

“I haven’t,” he says, pouring a second cup of tea, then looks up at her.  “I live just upstairs.  The commute is incredible.  Sugar?”

“Mmm, please,” she says, hopping up on a clear space on the desk before glancing around.  More books line the walls in here, as well as being stacked in precarious looking towers on various pieces of furniture.  "So all the books in here..."

"These are all of higher value," he tells her, handing her a cup of tea before looking around.  "Either monetarily or to me, personally. Some of these books, Miss Tyler, they're like old friends.  Always there, always waiting to thrill and touch us, to make us smile and weep at a moment's notice."

"Bit better than most people, then," she says distractedly, hopping off the desk to wander around the room.  She picks up a book at random, examining the worn cover.  "The Alice Compendium," she reads aloud, then looks back at him.  "Personal or monetary?"

He gives her an odd look, eyes unfocused a little, like he's trying to remember if he left the kettle on.  He shakes his head after a moment, stepping toward her and taking the book from her. "Personal. This one doesn't get sold. Ever."

She watches him turn to put the book on the mantle among a collection of knick knacks, raising an eyebrow as he strokes the cover before turning back to her.

"Right," she says slowly.  "So... Um... Why Blue Box Books?"

"I like alliteration," he says with a shrug. "There is this, though."

He heads to the back door, beckoning to her with one hand as he slips outside.  Rose follows him curiously, raising her eyebrows with a small smile when he gestures with a dramatic flourish at, yep, a blue box squatting at the back of the garden, nearly hidden amongst the overgrown shrubbery.  She glances at him before crossing the small open space to examine it.

"What's a 'police public call box'?"

"Phone box from the sixties, or thereabouts," John explains, patting the side.  "There was a time you could find these on every street corner, back before mobiles and clever security systems.  They could even serve as a sort of temporary holding cell.  Throw a ne'er do well inside, and they're tight and cozy until an officer can take them in to the station.". Rose reaches for the door, but it doesn't budge.  "Admittedly, the system probably worked a bit better before the doors jammed."

"Do you think?" she asks, cutting her eyes to him briefly before looking back at the box.  She takes a step back, her eyes sweeping over it.  "Why's it here though? Not exactly a street corner, is it?"

"No idea," he admits with a shrug, crossing his arms as he moves next to her.  "It was here when I took the place over."

"You could have it hauled away," she offered.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" he asks, giving her a look of genuine confusion.  "No, she adds a certain aesthetic, don't you think?  Just think of all the things she's seen.  The loss of the farthing. Margaret Thatcher.  The moon landing, Cold War, rise and fall of European communism.  This is a piece of history, Miss Tyler."

Rose watches him curiously as his eyes roam over the box.  "Why she?"

"Hmm?"

"You called it 'she'."

"Oh... I dunno." He shrugs a little.  "Just suits her, I suppose.  Tough old girl, weathering the decades like this.  Anyway, there you are.  Blue Box Books.  Come on, I’m sure there’s...something we should be doing that’s related to you actually earning a paycheck from me.”

They return to the bookshop, and John goes over some specifics of the register and things while they finish their tea, then more or less lets Rose loose in the stacks, telling her to come find him if she needs anything.  She starts by walking around the store, trying to get a feel for the place and how to organize the sections.  She starts in the back, with the goal of avoiding as much disruption to business as possible as she dives into a stack at random and starts to divvy the books up into piles.  John wanders by about twenty minutes in, and shortly after, several boxes and a permanent marker appear to help her with sorting.

Otherwise, her new employer is a ghost, leaving her to it.  She hears him in the background a few times helping customers who wander in, and she smiles at one point when she hears him explain, very politely, why a certain customer does not and will not ever deserve to own a first edition copy of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ without some very serious contemplation of their life choices.  Otherwise, she buries herself in what she’s doing, sorting through John’s eclectic and sometimes fascinating collection.  There’s a few she sets aside that are written in bizarre languages that she’s never seen, one seeming to consist mainly of circles and lines, to ask him about later.  It’s not until she hears a soft clearing of the throat nearby that she looks up and realizes how much time has passed, and how _hungry_ she is.

John smirks at her, then tilts his head in the direction of the counter before turning and sauntering away.  Rose watches him walk away for a moment before she jerks herself to her feet, realizing that she’s enjoying the view entirely too much for an employee with a boyfriend.

The scent of fish and chips hits her as soon as she moves out of the stacks and sets her mouth watering.  John rounds the counter and takes one of the paper wrapped parcels nodding at the other one for her.

“Thought you could use some nourishment after your valiant battle against the forces of the universe,” he says, and she smiles as she unwraps her lunch.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she says after popping a chip in her mouth.  “How much do I owe you?”

“Call it a starting bonus,” he tells her.

Definitely a step up from her old job.

oOoOo

_And one day, quite by chance, this new man found what the old one had been looking for: something to hope for.  There are singular individuals that can change a life--some for the better, some for the worse.  But this girl, she changed everyone for the better.  She wasn’t perfect, no one ever is...she ate too much junk food, she was a bit on the selfish side, and had her mother’s temper.  But she had a heart she wore on her sleeve, and a smile that could make the most defeated, wretched wanderer...feel like they’d come home._


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks go by for John as he watches the blonde bullet train force his shop into some sort of order.  After the first day, he starts helping now and then, and his excursions into placement and structure became more frequent as time goes on and he actually gets to know Rose.  He learns about her growing up with her widowed mum on the council estate, and about the time when she broke her arm jumping off the swings.  He meets her friend Shireen when they go out to lunch together, and is given a deluge of stories all afternoon about skipping school and trying cigarettes and all the other efforts young people put into capturing the attention of potential suitors.  Every conversation leaves him delighted, and a little happier that he’d given in and hired her, if only for this chance.

There’s a few times, as the store gets neater and there’s less to do between customers, that they end up doing more talking than working.  He finds out she has a secret love of French impressionism, and digs out the books he has on it, telling her it’s a bonus for defeating the chaos theory.  She starts borrowing books that he suggests, and coming back to work with bright eyes and ready discussions.  But it’s not until the gloomy, rainy afternoon that she talks him into reading some of Shakespeare’s sonnets to her that he realizes that his feelings for her are quickly skewing in a less platonic bend than they have any right to.  She’s far too young, and his employee, and involved with someone else, for christ’s sake.

Almost as if to prove a point, Mickey shows up the following day to take Rose to lunch.  John is almost tempted to find some excuse for Rose not to go, invent some reason that she has to work through lunch, but dismisses it quickly.  After all, what good would it do?  It’s not as if she actually _returns_ any of his feelings, and he’s got no right to keep her from Mickey, even if he’ll never believe the boy deserves her.  None of that stops him from watching the clock while she’s gone, even as he chastises himself for it.

He’s in the office when they do return, and he stands to greet them, only to stop at the door when he hears the harsh tones of an argument.

“Yeah, well, you sure were in a hurry to get back here!”

“It’s my _job_ , Mickey!  Of course I want to get back on time!”

“You honestly gonna tell me that your boss has nothing to do with it?”

“Well, since he’s the one who’ll fire me if I’m not back on time--”

“Oh my god!  Come off it, Rose!  You talk about him all the time, like he’s god’s bleeding gift to mankind.  You’re gonna sit here and tell me you don’t have a thing for him?”

“Bit rich coming from you, don’t you think?  Or are we not gonna talk about the texts from Tricia Delaney on your phone?”

“You shouldn’t have been looking at my texts!”

“Guilty conscience?  I wouldn’t look if it weren’t a problem!”

“Well you know, at least Tricia doesn’t go on about some other bloke all night!”

“Well then maybe you should spend your nights with her!”

“Maybe I should!  Only a matter of time before you start talking about how you’ve got to work late so’s you can shag your boss!”

“Oh yeah, would you even notice if I picked a night a match was on?”

“I don’t need this.  I’ve got a job to get back to, too, one where I don’t earn my paycheck by making moon eyes at my boss.”

The bell above the door jingles, followed by the crash of the slamming door.  John steps quietly out of the office while the glass panes in the door are still rattling to see Rose banging her bag down on the counter, looking down and breathing heavily.

“Rose?” he asks tentatively.

Her head snaps up, her expression guilty.  “I’m sorry--”

“No, no, don’t be,” he assures her quickly.  “Are you alright?”

“I--yeah,” she says, looking down again and shaking her head a little.  “I think Mickey and I are finished, but...yeah, I’m alright.”

“Okay, well--”

“He’s just such a bloody _hypocrite_ , you know?” she bursts out, cutting him off, and he raises his eyebrows a little.  “Talking about how I’ve got a crush on my boss--which, you know, I don’t, obviously--”

“Of course,” John manages when she glances at him.

"But he's not exactly winning any prizes, you know?  I could get mugged, or blown up, and he would still wanna go to the pub and watch the match.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” John offers doubtfully, and she smiles a little at him.

“No, you’re not,” she says.  She heaves a sigh and runs her hands through her hair with a groan.  “I dunno, it’s like, we were only together cause we had nothing better to do.  We’ve known each other forever, and it was just...whatever, the natural progression or something.”

“You deserve better than that,” he tell her before he can stop himself.  “You should be the best option, the only one...not something settled for because someone hasn’t gotten a better offer.”  Because how could there be a better offer?

“Yeah?” she asks, giving him a sort of sideways look as her tongue pokes out from her teeth.

“Yes,” he affirms, far too quickly.  He clears his throat to cover it up, glancing around the shop.  “But then, what do I know?  Far too romantic for my own good.  I fear there’s been some sort of osmosis from the pervasive presence of regency romances.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she says with a laugh, then sighs again.  “Come on, let’s take a look at that new load of books you just couldn’t keep yourself from.  I need something to do.”

John hauls the boxes out of the office for her, then leaves her to it, deciding that staying away from her is probably the safest bet at the moment.  While he’d love to be a supportive friend, things like _she’s single probably_ and _she’s been talking about you_ keep running through his head, cutting through the logical arguments he has for not asking her out.  Or just kissing her.  While pressing her up against the shelves of books...which would hardly be a safe maneuver, but that’s fantasies for you.  When Jeremy, the young Artful Dodger that’s been hanging around the shop for a couple of weeks, slinks in an hour later, John jumps at the distraction.

“Jeremy, my boy,” he says happily.  “How about some tea?  I’m fairly certain I’ve even got some biscuits I can scare up…”  He eyes the boy for a second.  “On second thought, how about a sandwich?”

“Yeah, alright,” Jeremy says after eyeing him suspiciously for a moment.

“Right, come on,” he says, gesturing to the office.  “Wait here a moment.”

John darts upstairs to his flat, digging out some cold cuts and bread for a few sandwiches.  Jeremy had been a tough sell, hanging around outside for a few days, before Rose had been able to coax him in slowly like a scared cat.  It wasn’t long before they’d pieced together some basic information about him--single mum working two jobs, a lot of kids around that were bigger and less than friendly, while the boy who was on the small side tried to get by--and mutually decided that Jeremy was welcome in the store whenever it was open.  He’s a decent lad; a bit quicker with the fingers than he ought to be, but he always returns everything that somehow finds itself in his possession.  There’s something slightly peculiar about him as well, one of the reasons the other kids have a tendency to pick on him, but John hasn’t quite been able to put his finger on what it is.

With Rose being...more distracting than usual, now might be just the time to have a more in depth chat with the boy.

Jeremy is sitting in his desk chair when John returns to the office, feet kicked up on the surface of the desk, as he examines an ivory chess piece from the chess board in the corner.  He looks up when John enters, and they stare each other down for a moment before Jeremy sighs and lifts his feet.  John sets the tray bearing tea and sandwiches down on the desk as the boy returns the chess piece to the board and plops down in one of mismatched chairs in front of the desk, reaching out to swipe a sandwich.

“So what’s got you so tense, Mister Smith?” Jeremy asks around a mouthful of food as John pours tea for both of them.  “I’d’ve thought you’d be happy.”

“About what?” John asks curiously, handing the boy a cup.

“About Miss Tyler splitting up with that Mickey bloke,” Jeremy replies easily, and John chokes on his tea.

"How on _earth_ did you know about _that_?"

"It was only a matter of time," Jeremy says with a shrug, and John shakes his head in disbelief.  "So you gonna ask her out?"

"I--Jeremy, that's really not something I'm prepared to discuss with a nine year old boy."

"Why not?" Jeremy asks.  "I could help, be your wingman."

"My... I appreciate the offer, but I think I'll handle this situation on my own," John says weakly.  "In the mean time, what do you say we put that chess set to some use?  _After_ you return the queen, of course."

John manages to divert his attention for the next couple of hours, although he's still hyper aware of Rose's presence just outside the door.  It's ridiculous, really; of course he's always been _attracted_ to her, since the day she'd nearly bowled him over outside the shop, but who wouldn't be?  The problem lies in the fact that he's become increasingly greedy about her conversation and smiles, to the point where he's even lured her away from paying customers.  But that had been safe, all the smiles and flirting, because nothing was going to come from it.  This is...an entirely different scenario.

"It's getting late," Rose says when she pops her head in a few hours later.  "Come on, Jeremy, I'll walk you home."

She gives John a fleeting glance as Jeremy hops off his seat, and he frowns in confusion as he follows them out of the office. She'd looked almost...guilty.

"Sure you don't want to stay a bit, Miss Tyler?" Jeremy asks as they head for the door. "Bet Mister Smith'd be happy to make you dinner."

"Good night, Jeremy," John says pointedly.

"I'll...see you tomorrow," Rose says hesitantly, and he nods at her with a tight smile before lowering his gaze and opening the door for them.  Jeremy smiles up at him cheekily when John stops the boy with a hand his shoulder and his other held out for his wallet, and then they're both gone. John lets out a long breath as he closes the door behind them and turns back to the empty shop.

It's only because he decides to stay in the office and do the books, such as they are, that he hears the shop phone after he closes up. He frowns at it, debating just letting it go to ansaphone; people who call generally do so by mistake anyway, nevermind at ten o'clock at night. After another ring, he sighs and reaches for the receiver.

"Blue Box Books, it's bigger on the inside."

"What's that even mean?"

He blinks at Rose's voice in the other end, not even trying to hide the smile that comes unbidden to his lips.  "You've worked here over a month, and you never bothered to ask?"

"You never bothered to tell me," she counters.

"Fair enough," he says, dropping his pen and leaning back in his chair. "Books are far more than their actual size. Whole worlds exist between their covers. Dimensionally transcendental."

"You are so weird," she says with a laugh.

"Eccentric," he replies easily. "It sounds better."

"Whatever."

John blinks, hearing a strange echo of the word in his head, in a slightly different voice and accent.  Something about it makes his breath catch and his throat tighten. He shakes his head and takes a slow breath, pushing the thought away.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Tyler?" he asks after a moment, clearing his throat when the words still sound a little strangled.

"I just...wanted to apologize again," she says.

"What for?" he asks, frowning in confusion.

"Rowing with Mickey in the shop," she explains. "I know it made you uncomfortable, you stayed in the office all afternoon, and I just--"

"You've got nothing to apologize for," he cuts in. "I wasn't...avoiding you." _Liar._ "I just thought you'd...want some space."

"Right," she says. "And the awkwardness when I left was..."

"Completely my fault," he admits. "Just...wasn't sure what to say."

"You always know what to say," she persists. "You were nice earlier. Really nice. Did I say thanks for that?"

"None needed.  It was the truth.  And honestly, I’m not upset about what happened.  I’ve got no reason to be.  There weren’t even any customers in the store.”

“And...and what he said about you…”

“I’m sure he was just projecting his own guilty conscience on to you,” John puts in quickly.

“Yeah...guess so,” she says with an odd tone to her voice.  She almost sounds...disappointed.

_Don’t go there, John.  That way, madness lays._

“Have you spoken with him since this afternoon?” he asks instead.

“Yeah, he stopped by a while ago for his stuff.”  She pauses a moment, then adds, “I’ve had it all in a box for a week already.  Guess that should’ve been a hint, yeah?”

“Maybe,” he hazards with a small smile.

“So, listen, the really important thing that we need to talk about is...are you going to read more of Shakespeare for me tomorrow?”

“You can read it yourself, you know,” he hedges, not entirely certain he’ll be able to cope with romantic and flowery language with her.

“Yeah, but that’s not nearly as much fun,” she complains.  “You’re so expressive...and you’ve got a great voice for it.”

“You’re just trying to butter me up to get your way,” he accuses with a smirk.

“Yeah...but it’s working, isn’t it?”

John rolls his eyes at the smile in her voice, then sighs, realizing his defeat.  “Shakespeare it is.  Good night, Rose.”

“Night, John.”

He stares at the phone a moment after he hangs up, then shakes his head, pushing his employee from his mind.  No good could possibly come from letting his imagination run away with him where she’s concerned.  He makes a face at the accounting journal in front of him, reaching instead for a leatherbound volume in the drawer and opening to a fresh page.  He closes his eyes a moment, letting his dream from the night before come back to him, before he starts writing.

_It was on a doomed airship that our hero met Charlotte Pollard--Charley, to her friends--the Edwardian adventuress..._


	3. Chapter 3

“So, got any plans tonight?” Jackie asks from the kitchen as Rose listlessly flips through the channels on the telly.

“Not really,” Rose calls back.  Ordinarily, she’d probably be doing something with Mickey, Friday and all.  But she’s not exactly missing navigating a rowdy pub while he ignores her in favor of the match, either.  “Thought I’d just spend some quality time with you tonight.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jackie replies as she enters the living room, and Rose narrows her eyes at her mother’s slightly higher than normal tone.  “You’re young, and gorgeous, you should go out, have a bit of fun.  No use sitting around here with your old mum.”

“Howard’s coming over, ain’t he?” Rose asks shrewdly, and Jackie looks down at the tea in her hands.

“I never said--”

“Didn’t have to, did you?”  Rose watches her mother smile a little sheepishly and heaves a sigh.  “Yeah, alright.  I know where I’m not wanted.  I’ll give Shireen a call.”

An hour and a half later, she’s leaving her flat with Shireen, teetering on borrowed heels her friend has forced on her and wearing a mini skirt and halter top that haven’t left her closet in years and are in no way suitable for the unseasonably chilly night.  “I dunno about this, Shireen.”

“Shut up, you look amazing,” Shireen says breezily as she hails a cab.  “Tonight’s a night for booze and boys, and neither of those are gonna happen in those jeans of yours.”

“I like my jeans,” Rose pouts, ducking into the cab behind her friend.  “They’re good jeans.”

“Of course they are, love,” Shireen tells her soothingly after rattling off an address to the driver.  “But they’re also repellant to all men but Mickey.  Point is to get someone who wants to take them off of you, not someone who wants you to be one of the blokes.”

_Fat chance_ , Rose thinks sullenly as she stares out the window.  “At least in jeans I wouldn’t be freezing.”

“Just means you need a drink or a man,” Shireen replies.  “Both, for preference.”

Rose continues to grumble, remembering suddenly why her and Shireen have drifted a bit over the years, but allows herself to be pulled inside the club anyway.  After a few drinks, however, she starts to remember _why_ her and Shireen had been friends in the first place.  It’s only an hour before she’s loosened up enough to get on the dance floor with her friend, and it’s not long after that that the night starts to blur in the nicest way.  She starts meeting a lot of incredibly friendly and generous blokes, who seem to want nothing more than keep her and Shireen happy and dancing.

She has a long, slurring discussion with Shireen a few hours later when Shireen wants to go home with one of them, bringing up half remembered statistics from some news show or other, but Shireen assures her quite seriously that she’s _not_ as drunk as she seems, and she _totally_ knows what she’s doing, and anyway, she got his license plate number, so Rose can find him if anything happens anyway.  Rose finally gives in to this logic, promising she can find her own way home when the bloke’s friend tries to offer her a lift, and soon finds herself standing outside the pub alone.  She pulls her phone out to call for a cab, but ends up calling John instead, suddenly intensely interested in what he gets up to on Friday nights after the shop closes.

He doesn’t answer until the fifth ring, right around the time that it occurs to Rose how late it probably is, but at least he sounds like he was awake when he answers uncertainly.

“Hi!” Rose answers his greeting brightly, thankful that he’d given her his mobile number the day after she’d called the shop.  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, of course not,” he says quickly.  “What...is everything alright?”

“Fine!  Had a wonderful night.  Have you ever had sex on a beach?”

“...Sorry?”

“It’s a drink,” she explains.  “It’s really amazing.  Sorry, that probably sounded really intrusive.  I wasn’t trying to, you know, ask if you’d actually had sex on a beach.  That actually sounds incredibly uncomfortable.  Sand would probably get _everywhere_ , talk about rough sex--”

“Rose,” he cuts her off.

“Hmmm?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Perfect,” she assures him, pacing a little.  She trips in the ridiculous heels, but catches herself against the wall with a giggle.  “Not even cold anymore.  Ohhh, maybe I should go get another drink, bet I’d be even warmer then.”

“I think that’s...probably not in your best interest,” John says slowly, and Rose wrinkles her nose.  “Is anyone with you?”

“Shireen was,” Rose replies, sweeping a foot across the ground in front of her and watching it’s trajectory with interest.  “She went home with someone she met.  Don’t worry, I got his license plate number, so I can find her if anything happens.”

“That’s...good.  How are you getting home?”

“Figured I’d call the queen, see if she could give me a lift,” Rose says with another giggle.

“Also inadvisable,” he says, but she smirks at the smile she can hear in his voice.  “Rose, do you want a lift home?”

“Someone already offered, but I said no,” she tells him.  “I didn’t know him.”

There’s a sigh on the other end.  “Would you like a lift home from _me_?”

“Oh!  Yeah, su--noooo…”

“Sorry?”

“Thing is, mum sleeps like the dead most of the time, but she’s got...like...drunk daughter radar,” Rose explains.  “I so much as set foot in the house, she’ll go from unconscious to lecturing in naught point two.”  
“Noted,” he says.  “I’m picking you up anyway.  Where are you?”

“No, you don’t have to--”

“Already have my jacket on, Rose,” he interrupts.  “My course is set, surrender to the inevitable.  Where are you?”

She smiles a little, then steps away from the wall to squint at the sign above the club to tell him.  He tells her he’ll be there in ten minutes, and she promises not to leave with anyone else.  It’s not until after she rings off that she smiles and thinks that she’d rather see him than anyone in the club anyway.

oOoOo

John had been a little worried when Rose called so late, although they had talked a couple of times after work over the past week or so since that first call.  In truth, he’d been grateful for the distraction after having a few nights of poor sleep following some rather vivid and nonsensical nightmares.  When he heard her slurring, though, then that she was alone, his concern grew until he’d not only had his jacket on, but his keys in his hand and the door shutting behind him when he’d asked her where she was the second time.  He sees her leaning against the wall outside when he pulls up to the club she’d named, inching away from the obviously drunk man apparently trying to chat her up.  She also looks like she’s freezing, despite what she’d said--rightfully so, considering the very high hem and low swooping neckline of her outfit.  He shakes his head and gets out of the car, rounding the bonnet toward her.  She beams at him when she sees him, launching herself at him and throwing her icy arms around his neck.

“My hero,” she murmurs against his ear, and he swallows hard as a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold races down his spine.  He hugs her briefly before stepping back and shrugging out of his jacket, swinging it over her shoulders instead.

“C’mon, let’s get you warm,” he says, tugging her toward the car.

“Kay,” she replies, still smiling at him, and he can’t help but smile back as he shakes his head and sighs.  He opens the car door, putting a hand on her head lightly as ducks unsteadily into it, then throws a glare over his shoulder at the man still standing outside watching them.  The man looks around briefly then sidles back inside, and John glances down at Rose fiddling with the radio inside the car, fingers barely visible at the end of the sleeves she’s put her arms through.  He smiles again softly as he rolls his eyes and rounds the car again to get in.

“How old is this car?” she asks as he pulls away, apparently giving up on the music.  “Cause it looks old.  Really old.  _Proper_ old.  And very yellow.  It looks cheerful.  Cheerful and old.  A cheerful, old car, like your favorite granddad.”

“You have a favorite?” he asks, glancing at her.

“Everyone does,” she says with a shrug, leaning sideways against the back of the seat, watching him.  “Are you taking me home?”

“And leave you to fend off the drunk mum radar on your own?  Perish the thought.  Out of curiosity, where were you _going_ to go?”

“Usually go to Shireen’s, only she’s not going to be home, cause she’s out shagging someone.”

“So you said,” he reminds her.  “Anywhere else you can go?”

“Could go to Mickey’s,” she says despondently, her eyes unfocusing as she brings her hand up to chew on her nail.  “He might wanna shag though.”

“Not Mickey’s,” he says firmly.

A smile that she probably thinks is sly but looks more adorably goofy spreads across her face.  “You don’t want me shagging Mickey?”

“Not drunk,” he says, arching an eyebrow at her at a stop light.  He eyes her for a moment, then sighs and signals to turn onto another street.

“Where’re we going?” she asks, frowning as she peers out the window.

“The shop,” he explains shortly, desperately hoping she won’t ask any more questions.  He’s already fairly certain this is a horrible idea, but it’s the best he can come up with.

“You live above the shop, yeah?” she asks, and he glances at her again warily.

“Yeah.”

“So I get to see the mysterious dwelling of the eccentric shopkeeper?” she asks, pitching her voice low for dramatics.

“Not that exciting, I promise you,” he says, smiling a little despite himself.  “But yes.  Unless you want to sleep in the office?”

“No, ta,” she says settling into her seat.

When he pulls into the small drive behind the house, he lets out a noise of frustration when she starts getting out on her own.  Sure enough, between the alcohol and the absurd heels she’s wearing, she immediately turns her ankle and goes down in a swearing heap.  He hurries around the car to help her up, she immediately whimpers with a grimace when she puts weight on her ankle, even while holding on to him.

“Shoes off,” he tells her, hanging on to her waist as she gingerly steps out of them.  He stoops to pick them up and hands them to her, then scoops her up in his arms and crosses the garden to the back door of the shop.  He sets her down again gently to unlock the door, and she giggles when he lifts her enough to swing her inside before locking it again behind them.  She lays her head on his shoulder as he navigates the narrow staircase up to his flat, trying incredibly hard not to think of the soft skin under his hand or her hot breath on his neck.

He sets her down on the sofa in the living room, kneeling in front of her to pick up her ankle and examine it carefully.  It’s a little swollen, but doesn’t appear to be broken, so he sets it down again to get her some ice, asking if she wants anything else.

“Ohhhh, have you got any chips?” she asks, her eyes lighting up.  “I’m starved.”

“I--actually, yeah, I think I do,” he says, remembering the leftovers from his dinner earlier.  “But you know what, before that, c’mere.”

He helps her off the sofa again, supporting her as she hobbles back to his bedroom, and sits her down again on his bed before turning to the dresser and pulling out a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt.

“Think you can handle these on your own?” he asks, handing them to her.

“Think so, yeah,” she answers with a grin as she shrugs out of his jacket, and he looks away quickly from the long legs and shoulders and neckline and everything Rose as he hurries out the door, calling over his shoulder that he’ll be back in a moment.  He gathers up ice, water, chips, and a bottle of paracetamol before he heads back to the bedroom, then pauses at the door when he sees Rose in his clothes leaning against the headboard, looking far more adorable than he’d accounted for.  She looking at the painting on the wall next to his bed with the intensity of a drunk who’s lost all perception of time or even, likely, what she’s even doing.  She turns her head quickly when he clears his throat quietly, and her eyes snap shut as her hands tighten on the duvet.

“Dizzy?”

“A bit,” she admits, then takes a deep breath before opening her eyes again.  “Closing my eyes should help, shouldn’t it?  I can’t see the room spinning then.  So how come it feels like it’s spinning more?”

“I think it might be because you tried to drink your weight in fruity drinks,” he teases gently as he steps closer.  He sets most of the items down on the nightstand, then moves down the bed again to put the ice pack on her ankle.  She hisses at the contact, but his hand shoots out to hold her shin and keep her from shying away from the ice pack.  His thumb strokes over her skin gently, and she relaxes, adjusting to the temperature and weight on her ankle.  Turning back to her, he hesitates a moment, then sits down on the bed next to her hip, reaching for the chips and water.

“As you ordered, m’lady,” he says, handing her the chips.  She frowns a little at them, and he picks one up and pops it in his mouth.  “It’ll help, promise.  At least if you eat those and get sick, it won’t just be dry heaving and stomach acid.”

“Cheery,” she says, making a face at him, but nibbles at one when he winks.  After the first one goes down, she digs in greedily, and he lets her get a few more in her before handing her the water and reaching for the bottle of paracetamol.  He shakes a couple out, and she puts the chips down in her lap to take them from him, swallowing them down easily before polishing off the chips.

“Better?” he asks, lips twitching, when she sets the empty plate aside and leans back against the headboard.

“Mhm.  Much less...spinny.”

“Less spinny is good,” he replies with a chuckle, taking the empty glass from her and setting it on the plate.  “How about when you close your eyes?”

She closes her eyes briefly, then makes a face and opens them again with effort.  “Still a little spinny.”

“It’ll pass,” he promises.  “Come on, lay down.  If you just relax a bit, you’ll fall asleep, spinny or not.”

She wiggles a little, and he helps tug the covers from beneath her, then over her as she snuggles down on his pillow.  He smiles softly as he reaches up to push the hair from her face, leaving his hand on his cheek.

“Did you have a good time, at least?”

“Mhm.  Wanna know my favorite part?”

“Tell me.”

“When you came to pick me up.”  John’s mouth opens a little as he sucks in a breath when she reaches up to finger his jumper.  “Wanna hear a secret?”  He nods mutely, even as warning sirens start blaring somewhere in the back of his mind.  “I don’t think Mickey was projecting.”

With a speed and coordination that she shouldn’t, by rights, have at all in her current state, she pulls herself up to press her lips to his.  His hand automatically moves to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he responds without thinking, mouth moving gently against hers.  She tastes like chips and salt and Rose and nameless alcohol, and feels so soft and wonderful, that it isn’t until he feels her tongue teasing at his bottom lip that he remembers why this is a disastrous idea in her current state.

He pulls away with a gasp, then swallows hard and looks away as he disentangles his fingers from her hair to move his hand to the relative safety of her arm.

“Rose--”

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, and his eyes snap up to hers, horrified at the tears filling them.  “I thought--I shouldn’t have--I’m sorry!”

“No, Rose, it--”  She tugs her arm out of his grasp and turns away, burying herself in the pillow and covers.  He places his hand on a vaguely arm shaped lump.  “Rose, please look at me.”

“I’m sleeping, go away,” comes her muffled reply, and he decides he’s probably better off waiting until morning anyway.  He sighs, then leans forward to press a kiss to her hair before grabbing the free pillow on the other side of the bed.

He glances back at her as he reaches for the light switch, then shakes his head as he flips it off and closes the door gently behind him.  He makes his way to the sofa, throwing the pillow at one end before collapsing on it.  The night had definitely taken a turn for the unexpected...but there was no way he was going to hold Rose to anything she said or did from the time she called him to the time he left the bedroom.  She’d been _incredibly_ drunk, and if she even remembered the kiss, there was really very little chance that she actually meant it.

Now if he could just pretend that he hadn’t, and dispel the haunting feeling of kissing her in his bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Rose is disoriented when she first wakes up, confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, but lets out a groan as the previous night comes back to her.  She buries her face in the pillow, only to realize that she’s breathing in the scent of John mixed with traces of her own shampoo, which only makes it worse.

She’d kissed him.  She’d actually kissed him.  Her boss, her...sort of friend, who’d gone out of his way to help her when she’d been three sheets to the wind, and she’d practically assaulted him in his own bed.  Of course he’d pushed her away, what in the hell had she been thinking?

Obviously, there’d been some...flirting and things, but after the split with Mickey, he’d been more distant, which made sense.  If he thought that the split had in any way been because of him, of course he’d distance himself, afraid she’d made too much of his innocent motives.  But of course it hadn’t really been anything.  John’s just...a charming man, who flirts with everyone.  That’s all.

But no matter how many times she tells herself that, it won’t stop the little flutter her heart makes whenever he smiles at her, or the way the timber of his voice makes her feel warm and cheerful whether he’s reading Shakespeare or the take away menu.

“I’m such an idiot,” she groans into the pillow.

“I’d be careful with talk like that here.”  At the sound of John’s voice, Rose spins and sits bolt upright--and immediately regrets it as the room tilts alarmingly.  “I take great offense to people insulting my friends, even when it’s my friends insulting themselves, so I’d appreciate it if you refrain from calling yourself an idiot in my presence, or I’ll have to take drastic measures.”

“Like what?” she asks, crossing her legs and holding her head in her hands.

“I was really hoping you weren’t going to ask that,” he admits, and she looks up as he steps closer to see a soft smile on his face and a glass of water in his hand.  “How’re you feeling?”

“Mmm...like something crawled into my mouth and died, but not before shag carpeting my tongue and putting socks on my teeth.”

“I’ve got an extra toothbrush,” he offers as she sips at the water, which tastes like some magical elixir of life at the moment.  “Might help with the carpeting and socks, at least.”

“Thanks.”

“None necessary,” assures her, slipping his hands into his pockets.  “How’s the ankle?”

“The--ohhh…”  She’d forgotten about the spill she’d taken outside...and him carrying her.  Blimey, how is she ever going to live last night down?  With a sigh, she shoos him away and pushes the covers off her, stepping gingerly off the bed--his bed--and grimacing as she tests her ankle.  Her hand goes to his shoulder when he immediately moves to her side, slipping an arm around her waist to steady her.  “Bit tender,” she admits through gritted teeth.

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he replies, arching an eyebrow.  “Come on.”

He helps her to the loo, then leaves her to her own devices with the promise of finding some breakfast after pointing out the spare toothbrush by the sink.  She uses the toilet and brushes her teeth before finally raising her eyes to the mirror and scowling at her reflection.  Her eye makeup is smudged so she looks like she’s got two black eyes, while the rest of her face is pale and surrounded by a complete riot of hair.

Never again, she tells herself as she turns on the tap again to scrub her face.  She still doesn’t know what had possessed her to call John.  She probably would have been better off facing her mum, with or without Howard.  At least she might regret things less.

A quick search reveals John’s brush, and she winces as she drags it through the tangled mess on her head, trying to tame it into some sort of order. The picture still isn't pretty when she's done, but it's considerably better than she'd started out with, so she deems it good enough. She limps out into the hall, holding in to the wall for support and concentrating on not tripping over the too long hem of the pyjama bottoms she's wearing. John looks up when she enters the kitchen, and immediately rushes to her side.

"You should have called for me," he chastises gently as he helps her to a chair at the table.

"It's a sprained ankle," Rose protests. "It's not like I lost a leg."

John hums doubtfully as kneels in front of her, picking up her foot and probing her ankle gently. She winces a little when his fingers hit a particularly tender spot, but he only nods a little before reaching for bandage on the table and wraps her foot up.

"Should be alright on a few days," he tells her. "Although I'd avoid the heels for a bit longer. Forever, for instance."

She laughs as gets to his feet with a wink. "Thanks, Doctor." He freezes with a startled look, and she tilts her head in confusion.  "What?"

"I--nothing," he says, his face clearing as he shakes his head and turns away.  "Just been having some strange dreams lately."

"Dreams of being a doctor? Doesn't sound so strange to me."

"Suppose it wouldn't," he says slowly, but still seems tense. "Anyway," he goes on before she can say anything else, "how's your stomach? Should we stick with toast, or do you think you can handle eggs?"

"Stomach's fine," she says. "But you really don't have to do this."

"Humor me," he says as opens the fridge. "Your phone's been going off all morning too," he adds, nodding at the table. "Might wanna take a look at it."

Rose pulls a face as she grabs it, then stiffens when she sees the time.  "Oh god, why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"Why would I?" he asks, turning to her with a confused expression. "You obviously needed the sleep."

"Because it's half past ten! What about the shop?"

"Oh that." He turns back to the stove with a dismissive wave if the spatula in his hand. "Don't worry about that. Inconsistent business hours are a very important part if any bookshop owner's mission statement."

"The mission statement being 'sell as little as possible to get by'?" she asks with a smile.

"That's the one," he replies, throwing a grin over his shoulder at her.

Despite his easy demeanor, Rose’s guilt grows and gnaws at her as he finishes preparing breakfast and joins her at the table.  She watches as he digs into his own eggs while pushing hers around the plate aimlessly.  He pauses after a moment, looking up at her and arching an eyebrow in silent question.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out, dropping her fork, and both his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  "For last night, for calling you and making you come and get me--"

"Rose, it's fine," he assures her, setting down his own fork and reaching toward her to lay a hand on her arm.  "I'm glad you called, glad that you feel like you can if you need to. One benefit of the workplace only consisting of the two of us is that we can be more than simply employer and employee; we can be friends. At least, I hope we can be."

His words are difficult to focus on while she's distracted by the hand on her arm, and a slight shiver runs through her when his thumb moves in a gentle caress. Right. Friends. No problem there.

"I'd like that," she manages, and he beams at her.

"Good!" He gives her arm a light squeeze before releasing it and turning back to his eggs.  When she doesn't follow suit, he looks up at her get again. "Something else?"

"I'm sorry about the... Other thing," she offers hesitantly, averting her gaze. "The... You know... The... Kiss." How could one bloody word be so hard to say? "I didn't mean--"

"I know," he interrupts, waving dismissively when she looks up at him again. "It's fine. You were... Very drunk, and I was there. And I was your hero, after all."

"Ohhh...I did say that, didn't I?"

He winks at her when she smiles and lets out an embarrassed laugh. "That you did. That's alright, though. It's been a long time since I was anyone's hero." A cloud passes over his face for an instant, so quickly Rose isn't even sure she saw it, and then he's smiling again. "Anyway, point is, you've got nothing to apologize for about last night. So please stop trying. I was happy to help."

"Alright," she says after a moment. "Well... Thank you. For everything, really."

"Anytime," he says. "Now, am I going to have force feed you?" She immediately scoops up a forkful of eggs and shoves it in her mouth, although the flip her stomach gives when he smiles at her again makes it difficult to swallow at first.

"So what is your mum going to say?" John asks as he's cleaning up after breakfast.

"I'll just tell her I stayed at Shireen's," she says easily from her spot at the table--he'd refused to let her help clean up.  "It's not the first time I've been out all night. Not that I do it often," she hastens to add.

"No explanation necessary," he says with a laugh. "I was nineteen once too. I think. It's all a bit of a blur now." He winks at her, and she sucks in a breath. "I meant more if she sees me giving you a lift home."

"Oh, I can walk," she tells him, and he snorts as he turns away from the sink, drying his hands on a towel.

"Rose, you could hardly make it down the hall. Not to mention the fact that the only shoes you've got are those daft heels. Don't get me wrong, you look great in them,” he adds, arching a brow and casting a pointed look at her legs, now covered in his pyjama bottoms, and she blushes to the roots of her hair as she looks away quickly.  It’s just an observation, she tells herself quickly, trying to get her breathing under control again.  “But I'm not sure they're the best idea right now, unless you possess a deeply rooted streak of masochism I was unaware of."

"Yeah, alright," she relents. "I'll just call a cab, you don't have to drive me."

"There's no sense in wasting money on a cab to go that far," he argues.

She blows her bangs out of her face in frustration as she eyes him. "You're not gonna give this up, are you?"

"Absolutely not," he answers.

"Then I guess I'll just have to hope she's not looking, won't I?"

"I guess so."

Another smile, and another stomach flip, and then she's changing out of the over large and over comfortable clothes John had lent her and back into the club clothes she'd been wearing the night before. He still insists that she borrow a fleece jumper that's nearly as long as her skirt, however, saying he's sure she'll find some excuse to have it.

"Did I really say your car was cheerful last night?" she asks as he pulls out.

"Like a favorite granddad," he replies with a nod without taking his eyes off the road. "You said a lot of things last night." At her groan, he does glance at her with a chuckle.  “It’s fine, honestly.  You’re a cute drunk.  And Bessie is a cheerful car.”

“Bessie?”

“Mhm.  It’s a good name for a car.”

“Why do you have to name your car?”

“To remind her that she’s loved,” he says, stroking the dash fondly.

"You are so weird," Rose laughs, shaking her head.

"And you are my employee and my friend," he counters. "What's it say about you, that you're so deeply attached to such a weirdo?"

"That I'm completely barmy," she replies with a grin, and he answers with a smile of his own.

John helps her out of the car when they reach her flat, steadying her with his hands in her waist.  Her shoes are dangling from one hand, but her free hand rests on his arm as she looks up at him and swallows hard at the proximity.

"Thanks again," she says, and he smiles softly as he brings one hand up to her cheek.

"I told you, none necessary," he replies, then leans forward to kiss her forehead.  "Have a good weekend, Rose. I'll see you Monday."

John his thumb over Rose's cheekbone before finally stepping back and letting her hobble to the stairs and begin her climb to the third floor.  She'd vehemently protested when he'd offered to help her, partially because she didn't want Jackie seeing him, but mostly because she'd already been enough trouble for him, thanks all the same.  By the first landing, though, she's cursing her own stubbornness, and her injured ankle is throbbing by the time she finally reaches her floor.  Holding on to the balcony railing, she limps her way to her door, and jumps when she hears a car horn from the car park below.  She looks down to see John watching her through his windscreen, using mouthed words and hand gestures to ask if she's okay.  She replies with a thumbs up and a tight smile, and he shakes his head a little as the corners of his own mouth turn up a little. He gives her a little wave, and she returns it as he pulls away.

Jackie steps out of the kitchen as Rose enters the flat, and immediately puts down her mug of tea to help when she sees Rose limping.

"Good lord, Rose," she says as she helps get daughter into her bedroom. "What have you done to yourself now?"

"Just a twisted ankle," Rose assures her as she drops down into her bed.  "I'll be fine in a day or two."

Jackie eyes get critically for a moment before shaking her head.  "Must've been a good night to still be smiling like that."

Rose's tongue pokes out a little from her teeth as she says, "The best, Mum. Just... the best."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Despite all of John’s efforts to distract himself, Rose stays on his mind all weekend.  He counts six times that he picks up the phone to call her, only to put the phone down again hastily.  He stops counting after that.

It’s ridiculous, he knows it is.  It was exactly like he’d told her when she was trying to explain herself: she was drunk, and he was there.  Nothing more to it than that.  But her “secret” echoes back in his head every time he repeats this to himself, effectively destroying his feeble defenses.  By Monday, he’s no better off than he’d been when he’d dropped her off on Saturday, and finds he’s at a complete loss on how to deal with that.

Nevertheless, he repeats his tired mantras about their working relationship and ages and her state when she’d kissed him when she enters the shop, hoping it will keep him at least somewhat sane around her.  Her smile makes it more difficult, but her continued limp makes him frown in concern, shoving his other thoughts to the back of his mind.

“Your ankle still bothering you?” he asks, nearly kicking himself at the redundancy of the question.

“A bit, yeah,” she admits, leaning on the counter and wincing.  “S’what I get for wearing shoes like that and drinking that much.”

“Hmm, maybe,” he says. “But there’s no reason you should be punished unduly.  Hold on.” He goes into the office, returning a moment later with a tall stool.  He sets it down behind the counter as she approaches, then nods at it. “I’m afraid this may be trading one discomfort for another, but you’re relegated to the counter, at least for today.”

“It’s really not that bad,” she claims, dropping her bag.  “I’ll be fine to move around the shop, and I’m sure it could use some reordering.”

“Believe it or not, I am actually capable of doing that,” he responds drily.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she says with a tongue-touched grin, and he shakes his head.

“Yes, well, be that as it may, you’re staying off that ankle today.”  At her eye roll, he reaches for her, and she lets out a little squeak as he lifts her easily onto the stool.  “Boss’s orders.”

Rose’s hands are on his biceps, and she arches a brow at him.  “Yes, sir.”

It takes him a moment to realize that his grasp is probably lingering a bit too long on her waist, and he’s standing a bit too close, and that his eyes really shouldn’t drop like that to her mouth and remember the feel of them against his.  He clears his throat and takes a step back, burying his hands in his pockets and cursing his own lack of forethought in regards to such a stupid move.

“Right, well,” he says hastily, glancing around.  “I suppose then that I should get on with sorting the shelves, since you’re an invalid. Do you need anything?”

“Seriously?” she asks, giving him an odd look.  “You’re gonna pay me for the day to just…sit here…and you’re gonna ask if I need anything?”

“Well…yes,” he says, slightly baffled.

She continues to stare at him a moment, then licks her lips, drawing his attention once more to her mouth before he forces his eyes back up to hers.  “Tea’d be nice, then.”

“Of course,” he says, smiling a little when she beams at him.  “Would you like a book?  More Shakespeare, perhaps?  Maybe Romeo and Juliet?”

“Mmm…no, maybe something a bit more…lighthearted,” she says.

“Hmmm, well I don’t know that it’s all actually lighthearted, but have you read the Harry Potter series yet?”

“You’re really just a giant nerd, aren’t you?” she asks, resting her chin on her hand as she leans on the counter.

“I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done to give the impression I was trying to hide that fact,” he replies with a shrug.

“Harry Potter and tea it is, then,” she laughs, and the sound does strange things to his heart, making it somersault in his chest as he nods and turns away, ordering himself to get a grip.

Thankfully, the rest of the day passes more or less uneventfully, probably due in no small part to John keeping the counter between them if he had to approach her at all. Mostly, he sticks to straightening the shop and helping customers with questions before sending them toddling off to the counter to be rung up by Rose.

This more or less works on Tuesday as well, with Rose up at the counter reading between customers and John moving throughout the shop, but by Wednesday, her ankle is stronger and she’s obviously getting restless.  Fortunately, there’s enough time separating him from the kiss for John to regain a margin of self-possession.  She’s still distracting beyond reason, but he finds that he’s at least able to be close to her without being completely overwhelmed by the need to touch her.

This is tested considerably that afternoon, however, when he rounds a corner unexpectedly and startles her, making her lose her balance on the ladder she’s perched precariously upon and tumble straight into his arms.

"You really are incredibly jeopardy friendly, you know that?" he manages, even though most of his brain is centered on the fact that he once again has found himself with Rose in his arms and how well she seems to fit there.

"Always falling for you, me," she replies with a shaky laugh.

"Is that right?" he asks in a low voice, his eyes dropping to her mouth for an instant before returning to hers, only to find that her gaze had similarly wavered. There’s a charged moment between them, and then he swallows and tears his eyes from hers, looking up at the shelves instead.  “You really still shouldn’t be on the ladder anyway.  What were you looking for?”

“Um.”  He looks down to see her shake her head as if to clear it. “Uh, there’s a…a Sherlock Holmes novel up there that’s out of place.”

“Right.”  He moves her gently to the side, which is absolutely in no way a subtle way of keeping his hands on her waist as long as possible, and moves past her and up the ladder.  He finds the Holmes novel, as well as a dusty copy of  _Great Expectations_.  “What about this one?”

He twists on the ladder to look down at her, raising an eyebrow when her eyes flash up from where they had been resting at what appeared suspiciously to be the level of his bum.  The idea that she might have been checking him out— _sober_ —makes him feel unreasonably giddy, and he coughs to cover a chuckle when she clears her throat and blushes.

“Yeah…yeah, you can bring that down too,” she says weakly, and he grins as he turns to grab the books and make his way back down the ladder.

“Your books, Miss Tyler.” Their fingers brush as he hands the books over, and it feels nearly like an electric shock.  They stare at each other a moment longer while fleeting images of tearing the books from her hands and kissing her with wild abandon fill John’s mind, and he buries his hands in his pockets to keep from doing just that as he fights for control.  He swallows hard and nods at her before moving past her, the feel of her arm brushing against his creating another static charge between them that he tries unsuccessfully to ignore.

The rest of the day passes in a similar fashion, with them seeming to orbit around each other, pulled together by an inexorable force and only his weakening will to keep them apart. She seems to be blushing more easily, and the tongue-touched smile of hers is making more frequent appearances, nearly making him groan with each instance.

It’s only when Mickey shows up later to drive Rose home that John feels himself recovering the slightest bit of control…mostly because of her smile and peck on the cheek to greet the boy.  He reminds himself once again that she was very drunk when she’d kissed him, and that her words couldn’t be taken too seriously, and he has zero claim on her. It’s not enough to stop him from disliking Mickey even more than he had previously, a sentiment apparently shared, given the dark looks Mickey casts his way.

“What do you think, Rose?” he asks as she gathers up her things, ignoring Mickey’s presence entirely. “Still enjoying the wonderful world of wizardry, or would you like another dalliance into Shakespeare tomorrow?”

She looks up at the ceiling as she ponders this.  “Mmm…maybe Shakespeare, if you’re up for it.  No tragedies, though.  If I want to hear horrific stories where everyone dies, I’ll just watch the news.”

“Understandable,” he allows. “Shakespeare has plenty of comedies, though.   _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , for example. In fact, there’s even a character that would probably resonate well with your friend here.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks, giving him grin as she swing her bag onto her shoulder and glances briefly at Mickey.

“Absolutely,” he replies. “The character Bottom is practically his literary equivalent.  Especially after his transformation into an ass.”

“What are you trying to say?” Mickey demands.

“I’m not  _trying_ to say anything,” he retorts evenly, raising an eyebrow.  “I think I was fairly successful.”

“Blimey, you can practically smell the testosterone,” Rose says, rolling her eyes as she moves past John and around the counter.  “I think we should go before you two pull out the measuring tape.  See you tomorrow, John.”

Mickey shoots him a last dirty look before they leave, and John lets out a long breath as the door closes behind them.  He closes up the shop soon after, and spends the rest of the night writing out some of his latest dreams, disjointed bits and bobs about walking office buildings and creatures so terrified of light they’d lost their own eyes to evolution. Anything to keep his mind off what his gorgeous blonde employee might be doing with the boy she supposedly broke up with a week ago.

oOoOo

“I’m not getting back with him.”

John blinks and looks up from biography of Elizabeth I to see Rose biting her lip.  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“No, I know,” she says with a shrug.  “It’s just…thought I’d share.  We’re just…friends.  Just like we were.”

“And he’s okay with that?” John asks doubtfully.

“Oh, yeah,” she says quickly, then tilts her head a little back and forth indecisively.  “More or less.”

“Right,” he says, lips twitching.  “Well, so long as you’re happy.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, but still doesn’t look entirely satisfied.  She studies him a moment longer, then shakes her head and turns away. He looks back down at his book, only to look up at her a second later when she starts to speak again.  “It’s just, you know, what I said…on Friday—”

“Rose, I told you, you don’t have to explain,” he interjects.  “Honestly.  I’m not going to hold you to anything you might have said while extremely intoxicated, and whatever happens with Mickey is, frankly, none of my business.  You’re more than welcome to share if you need to talk, but please don’t feel like you owe me anything.”

“Right,” she says, then glances around.  “I’ll just…um…be over here…marinating in my awkwardness.  Just shout if you need me.”

He lets out a small chuckle despite himself as she hurries into the stacks.  He can’t deny a certain amount of satisfaction at the knowledge that Rose isn’t going to be dating again, at least not anytime soon…but that doesn’t actually mean that any of his fantasies will soon become reality either.

It appears to be Rose’s turn to play the avoidance have today; he barely sees her all morning without actively seeking her out.  He’s got no idea what she’s doing to keep herself busy—probably creating some mad new method of organizing the stacks that he’ll have to learn later—but by lunch he’s actually missing her.  It probably says a lot about his talent for business that he’s actually disappointed when his employee is working hard rather than talking to him or reading, but he pushes the thought from his mind as he sets off to find her.

What he utterly fails to account for is how much disaster likes to strike around her, a principle that one again proves true when turns a blind corner and barrels straight into her. She lets out a surprised squeak, and the books in her hand go flying as he loses the battle for balance, taking her down with him.  John barely manages to catch himself with his hands on either side of her shoulders in order to keep from falling on top of her completely, but it’s a near thing. Some distant part of his mind registers that his knee took the brunt of the force, and he’ll probably be sore as hell later, but this gets mostly lost in the chaotic thoughts centered around the beautiful woman looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes roaming over her face.

“Yeah, fine,” she replies, letting out a breathless little laugh.  “Falling for you again.”

“Yes,” he agrees, his mind lost in ways he could turn this situation to his advantage, along with all the reasons he shouldn’t.

“At least I’m not alone this time,” she jokes, but her smile falters a little when his eyes shoot to hers, studying her intensely.

“Yes.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, smile dropping completely as she blushes under his scrutiny.  “Yeah?”

The uncertainty of it, the idea that it might be  _him_ not interested in  _her_ , is baffling enough for John’s control to snap completely.  The words “sod it” pass his lips just before he dips his head to press them to hers.  His hands move to grasp her wrists, pinning them to the floor on either side of her head as he coaxes her mouth open, _needing_ to taste her now that he’s gone this far.  She lets out a whimper as his tongue slides along hers and arches up against him, her pelvis moving against the thigh he has between her legs in a way that makes his head swim.

Thoughts about taking her upstairs to his bed are chased away by the observation that he probably wouldn’t make it if he tried, all but drowned out by the sensation of how good she feels and tastes and sounds and  _moves_ against him.  There’s a small voice that says he should slow down, retreat, regroup, but then she nips at his lip and the voice gives in to the collective suspension of rationality.

Until, that is, the bell over the shop door jingles cheerfully, and acts as a bucket of cold water. John breaks the kiss quickly, releasing her wrists, but he can’t resist trailing his fingers over her arms as he takes in her flushed cheeks and swollen lips.  He gets unsteadily to his feet and holds out his hands for hers, hauling her up, and nearly loses it again when she stands close to him.  He swallows hard and glances behind him toward the front of the store, then looks back at her and shrugs helplessly.  She nods, smoothing down her hair as she steps away from him.

“Hello?” a voice calls, and John realizes that for all his jokes about customers, this is the first time he’s ever wanted to bodily throw someone out of the shop.  “Anyone here?”

“Be with you in a moment,” he calls over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Rose.  ”Have dinner with me. Tonight, after closing, come to dinner with me. Please?”

Rose stares at him for a moment, then a small smile forms on her lips.  ”Like a date?”

"Remarkably like," he agrees, lips twitching.  "So much so, in fact, that you could even say it  _is_  a date.  Is that alright?”

"Yeah," she says, giving him a tongue touched smile.

"Good."

"Excuse me?" someone asks behind him, and John sighs and rolls his eyes.

"Yes, alright," he says impatiently.  "Until later, Miss Tyler."

"Looking forward to it," she replies, still grinning, and he gives her a heated look before turning away to help the blasted customer. Even as he’s locating a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s collective work, he realizes it’s going to be a long afternoon.

oOoOo

The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze for Rose, a fog of anxiety and expectation and shock. She hadn’t been able to keep herself from wondering yesterday, when John had gotten all rude with Mickey, if there was something a bit of attraction from his end as well.  She supposes this is probably the reason that she’d suddenly realized, in a flash of clarity, that he might have actually kissed her back before retreating last weekend.

Which was lovely, but she also realized that her memory was not exactly to be trusted, between the alcohol and the time to fantasize since then…which she had done a lot.  When he’d firmly told her it wasn’t any of his business what happened with Mickey, she’d been sure she was wrong, that it was just…male ego or something that had led to his snarky behavior the night before.

Then the kiss happened. And the dinner invitation.  And the rest of the afternoon, Rose suddenly feels about twelve years old again, blushing and trying not to giggle whenever John looks at her.  It doesn’t exactly bode well for their dinner plans.  A date isn’t bound to go well if she can’t actually  _talk_.

She’s lost in plans on how she’s going to survive this without making him believe she’s really is just an awkward teenager when she suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder, making her jump a foot in the air.

“Sorry,” John says with a concerned frown.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.  It seems to be incredibly bad for your health.”

“It’s…fine,” she says, waving a dismissive hand.  “Just…thinking.  Um. Something you needed?”  

“I was just curious whether there was anywhere in particular you wanted to go tonight,” he replies, glancing at his watch.  “It’s nearly closing.”

“Right.”  She goes stiff as nerves completely take over, managing to somehow forget every single restaurant or diner in London.  “It is, isn’t it?  Um.  Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, a crease forming between his brows.  “Rose, you know there wasn’t going to be any sort of…retribution if you refused because I’m your boss, right?  We don’t have to—”

“No!”  She clears her throat awkwardly when his eyebrows raise and his lips twitch.  “I mean, I want to, I do.  It’s just…”

“Just…”  John tilts his head a little and crosses his arms. “Rose, are you nervous?”

“A bit,” she admits, shrugging as she feels heat rise to her cheeks.

“What on  _earth_  for?”

Rose picks at her nails, making an indecisive noise.  “It’s just, you know, usually, if I’m going on a date, especially a  _first_ date, I get Shireen over and we spend the whole day planning my outfit and makeup and whatever, and I have time to figure out what I’m going to say so I don’t do…this.”

“This being oscillating between clipped phrases and blurting out everything that comes into your head?” he asks, clearly fighting back a smile.

“That’d be it, yeah,” she groans.

“But I don’t understand,” he says, shaking his head a little.  “We talk all the time.”

“Yeah, but that’s…you know… _here_ ,” she says, shrugging again. “That’s different.   _That’s_ easy.”

“I see.”  He studies her a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, then glances at the shelf she’d been straightening.  “I think I have an idea.  Finish up here and meet me at the counter in half an hour or so?”

“I…yeah, alright,” she says.

“And Rose?”  She looks up, her stomach flipping a little as he raises a hand to her cheek.  “Don’t be nervous.  Please.”

She swallows hard and nods a little as his thumb moves over her cheek.  He steps closer, and her eyes flutter closed as he presses a kiss to her forehead before turning away.  She doesn’t open her eyes again until she hears him move out of sight, and lets out a long breath as she does so.  The smallest gestures from him have huge effects on her, it seems…probably something she should try to get under control.  Then again, he did ask her out…Rose shakes her head, almost wishing this was over with already.

Nearly forty-five minutes later, she tells herself to stop being a coward, takes a deep breath, and heads toward the front of the shop.  John looks up when he hears her, his eyes lighting up as he grins at her.

“Just in time,” he says, gesturing expansively at the white cartons he’s laid out on the counter.

“What’s this?” she asks, puzzled, as she walks toward him slowly.

“I should think that would be obvious,” he states, and she arches an eyebrow at him.  “It’s dinner.”


	6. Chapter 6

“You said it’s easy here,” John says as he starts opening the cartons, and Rose’s mouth waters as the scent of savory chicken, beef, sauces, and vegetables wafts toward her, “and since there’s no hard and fast rule that says that we have to go _out_ somewhere, I had dinner come to us.  Next time, I’ll be sure to give you a day’s notice so you can plan and script and generally drive yourself mad with Shireen as much as you like.”

The smile that had started to spread across her face while he talked is nearly painful now.  “There’s going to be a next time?”

“I sincerely hope so,” he replies, then steps around the counter to take her hand and tug her behind it again, revealing the stool he’d confined her to earlier that week along with another mismatched one.  He gestures to hers with his free hand, and she laughs as he gives a little bow.  He winks at her as he straightens, keeping hold of her hand as she climbs onto the stool.  “And now, Miss Tyler--”  He pauses, holding out a set of chopsticks.  “Bon appetite.”

“That’s French,” she says with a smirk.

“True, but unless you know Chinese, you can hold the cheek,” he says, sticking out his tongue and making her giggle.  "So was Mickey upset when you told him you wouldn't be getting back together?"

"I thought it was none of your business," she teases as she swipes some chicken with snow peas.

"I'm curious," he says with a shrug.  "Indulge me."

"A bit," she admits.  "But I think he'll get over it. Thing is, he's really not a great boyfriend, but he is a great friend.  I don't want to lose that."

"Just go easy on him," John advises. "It's a tough transition, from lovers to friends, especially when it's not by choice."

"Why so much sympathy for Mickey suddenly?"

"It's astonishingly easy to have sympathy for a man no longer allowed to snog the woman I'm interested in."

John's open admission of rivalry with Mickey makes Rose feel warm all over, and she looks down as she fights a goofy smile.  "Right. Um, is this really what you want to talk about on our first date?"

"Absolutely not," he replies, and she looks up when he spears a piece of chicken in front of her with one of his chopsticks to see his blue eyes dancing in amusement. "How are you enjoying Harry Potter?"

"I love it," she tells him, reaching for an eggroll.  "But if Sirius dies before Snape, I'm gonna kill you."

His expression stiffens, and Rose groans.

The rest of dinner is easier than Rose had imagined it would be, but she suspects that has more to do with John than the location.  They continue on Harry Potter for a while--Rose's favorites are Hermione and Professor McGonagall, but she admits that she does have a thing for Sirius, one of John's favorites, and his anarchic approach to things.  The conversation seamlessly transitions to different theories about magic and its applications in the real world, then to science, which John says is simply attainable magic.  Between talking, they polish off the food he'd ordered, and end up facing each other, both leaning on the counter with one arm, and other hands clasped together on Rose's knee.  It's all so effortless that Rose is shocked when she finally looks at her watch and finds that it's nearly two in the morning.

"I should get you home," he sighs when she tells him.  "Before I turn into a pumpkin.  Come on, I'll walk you."

"What about Bessie?" she asks, feeling a twinge of regret that she'd even mentioned the time as she pulls on her jacket.

"She'll understand," he assures her with a wink.  He goes into the office to retrieve his own jacket before unlocking the front door and ushering her through.  "Cars are wonderful for getting where you're going quickly, but in this case, that would be extremely counterintuitive." Rose gives him a blank look as he locks the door again behind them, and he sighs when he turns to see it.  "Driving would mean less time with you, you see.  And that's simply not something I can be happy about.  Besides, it's a nice night, don't you think?" he asks, taking a deep breath.  "Humidity of the summer gone, the breeze cool but not cold... Yes, Miss Tyler, I'd say this is the perfect night for a stroll.”

She stares at his twinkling blue eyes and twitching lips, and barely suppresses a smile as she shakes her head.  "You are so weird."

"You like it."

She can't argue with that, and he takes her hand, raising it to his lips for an instant before setting off toward her flat.  As physical as he'd been before, she's shocked to realize he'd been holding back all this time.

"So tell me, Rose," he says conversationally, "what is a bright, engaging young woman such as yourself still doing working low paying retail jobs?"

She stiffens, automatically getting defensive.  "Is this where you lecture me on how much more I could be doing with my life?"

"Hardly," he snorts, his thumb moving over here soothingly.  "I'm fairly certain there's plenty of people who would happily recommend I do something with my life apart from slowly driving a bookshop into the ground.  I wouldn't judge your choices even if I could.  I was merely curious."

"Oh... I dunno."  She shrugs, not really sure how to answer the question posed that way.  "It's just... I mean, do you ever get the feeling that there's... More?  More than just... Get up, go to work, chips and telly, go to bed?"

"All the time," he murmurs.  "There's plenty you could do though.  Stubborn as you are, I'm fairly certain you could succeed at anything you set your mind to, _especially_ if someone tried to tell you you couldn't."

"Well, thanks," she laughs, then shakes her head.  "Anyway, enough about me.  Tell me something about you."

"Not much to tell," he says with a shrug.  "What do you want to know?"

Rose considers this for a moment.  She'd really just wanted to change the subject, but now she realizes that she's never really heard him talk about himself.  This should probably have struck her as odd--she could already hear Mickey berating her for going out with John when she knew nothing about him--but it just serves to make her curious.

"Anything," she says finally.

"That's very broad."

"Right... Okay, where are you from originally?"

"Liverpool," he answers promptly.  "Post Beatlemania."

"Are your parents still there?"

"In... A manner of speaking," he says slowly, then glances down at her.  "They both died when I was young."

"Oh god, I'm sorry," she says, mentally kicking herself.

"It's fine, it was a long time ago," he assures her.  "I barely remember them, to be honest.  Only... Vague shapes in my mind.  It's like you with your dad... You can't really miss something you never had... Only the idea of what you could have had."

"Suppose." She bites her lip, trying to think of a question that's less depressing.  "No brothers or sisters?"

"Nope."

"Well, where did you grow up then?"

"The Academy."

"What's that?" she asks.  "Like a boarding school?"

"I... Yeah," he says, but his brow is furrowed in thought.  "Yeah, Mum and Dad... Left a trust behind.  For education, room and board, all that."

"That's good," she says.  "Nice that they were still able to provide for you like that." He hums in agreement, but still seems distracted.  "So how did you end up here?"

"I spent about a decade at Cambridge studying all the things that either require becoming a lifelong student or a teacher,” he explains.  “Philosophy, literature, things like that.  At some point I realized I didn’t want to do either, and became somewhat of a hermit while amassing my considerable collection, but it turns out that I don’t do well with a sedentary lifestyle _either_ , so I poured a sizeable amount of what was left in my trust into the shop, and here I am.”

“Sounds like you’re drifting a bit as well,” she remarks.

“A bit,” he says with a shrug.  “But I’m not particularly worried about it.  I’m not incredibly good at mundane routines.”

“Shocking,” she says with a smirk.  “So what about friends?  Where are they?”

“I don’t really have any that I keep in touch with,” he replies.  “I don’t think I play well with others.”

“I dunno, you’re not doing so bad,” she flirts, and he arches an eyebrow at her as he squeezes her hand.  “But come on, seriously, are you telling me you haven’t got _any_ friends?”

“There’s you,” he offers, and she rolls her eyes.  “Alright, alright.  I mean, I’ve _had_ friends.  They’ve just sort of...drifted...over the years…”

The crease between his brows is back, like he’s trying to remember something he forgot.  It’s almost painful to watch, but she can’t stop herself from asking, “Doesn’t that get lonely?”

His expression clears immediately, and he looks down at her with a slightly crooked smile as he squeezes her hand again.  “Not lately." She bites her lip, and he huffs.  "It's fine, Rose, honestly.  I'm not some tortured soul with a tragic backstory to overcome.  Like I said, there's just not much to tell--nothing of interest anyway."

"So you didn't... You know... Just ask me out because I'm... The only one around?"

He stops walking, pulling on her hand to force her to halt and turn to look at him.  "Is that really what you think?"

She shrugs, raising her free have to bite her nail as she curses herself for bringing any if this up.  _Way to blow it, Tyler._

John stares at her a moment, shaking his head irritably when she doesn't say more.

"Strangely enough, I've managed to hold my own around any number of women in my time without, as you so eloquently stated, literally falling for them."  He raises a hand to her cheek, running his thumb over her cheekbone before dipping his head to press his lips to hers.  It’s sweet and chaste...for about three seconds.  Then he releases her hand to slide his arm around her waist, pulling her closer as he angles his head to deepen the kiss.  One of her hands grasps his raised forearm while the other finds its way to his dark curls, making an embarrassing sound between a sigh and a moan.  She feels a little lightheaded when he finally breaks away, and his voice is huskier than usual as he says, “I’m definitely not kissing them all on street corners at two in the morning, either.  Believe me?”

“Yeah.”  She swallows hard as his thumb brushes over her cheek again, and he kisses her forehead lightly before releasing her.

“Good.  Now come on, I really should get you home, or you’ll be useless to me tomorrow.  Nevermind the fact that, from what I hear, your mother might actually slap me for keeping you out all night.”

Rose laughs as he takes her hand and sets off toward her flat again.  “It’s fine.  She’s probably asleep anyway.”

“Ah, and no drunk daughter tonight,” he says with a smirk.  “So no chance of her radar waking her.”

“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’.  “‘Sides, I’d probably just tell her I was working late or something.”

“I doubt that would actually go far in proving that I’m not a bad, bad man,” he observes, tilting his head.  “Since I’m telling you now, I’m not paying you overtime for that, no matter how good a kisser you are.”

He chuckles when she swats at his arm, and just like that, the tension from the conversation is gone, like it had never been there.  John walks her up to her door, kissing her again thoroughly before letting her inside, and she doesn’t hear his footsteps move away until she’s locked the door.  She makes it into her room before her phone starts ringing, and John explains that he’s made a grave miscalculation, because now he has to walk all the way back to the shop without her.  Keeping him company on the phone while he makes his way home ends up in another hour of conversation, until Rose can barely keep her eyes open when he finally rings off with a soft good night that echoes in her dreams.

oOoOo

Despite the late night, Rose is still up in plenty of time for work the next morning, feeling far more refreshed than she should.

“What’s got you all giddy this morning?” her mother asks as Rose swallows down a cup of coffee.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve met someone.”

“Can’t I just be in a good mood?”  Jackie arches a brow suspiciously, but Rose ignores it, dropping a quick kiss on her cheek before running out the door.  “See you later!”

She remains buoyant almost the entire way to the shop, then wavers uncertainly when it comes into view.  She slows to a stop before she gets to the door, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket as her thoughts suddenly scramble.  Last night had been...well, wonderful.  More than wonderful.  But she’s got no idea what to expect _today_ , or if she should even expect anything at all.  It was just one date, right?  Alright, a very _long_ one date, but still.  Will he kiss her good morning?  Will he expect her to kiss him?  Or should she act like nothing happened, nothing’s changed?  It was _one date_ , and honestly, she’s never usually this mixed up about a bloke.  Really, who’s he think he is, being all...handsome and charming and scattering all her thoughts with one bleeding smile that’s basically a direct assault on her rationality?  He’s always so collected and in control, which is just remarkably unfair, he’ll probably act like he wasn’t affected at all.  Well, if that’s how he wants to play it, she can too.  Ice queen, completely chill.  Yeah.

She hadn’t even realized she’d started pacing nervously until she hears his voice from the door behind her.  She jumps and whirls around, clearing her throat awkwardly as she tries to maintain a cool front.

“Were you going to pace out here all day?” he asks, leaning out, one hand on the door handle and the other on the frame to keep himself upright.  “Or are you planning on coming in at some point?”

“Yeah...I just...had a lot of coffee this morning,” she manages with a laugh, trying to force some calm over her nerves.  “I’m coming in right now.”

“You sure?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Positive?”

“ _Yes_ , John,” she says, rolling her eyes as she walks toward him.

“So long as you’re certain,” he says, taking a step back to allow her to pass him into the shop.  “Oh, there was one thing, though.”

He stops her with a hand on her arm, and she barely has time to turn to face him before he’s kissing her insistently.  She backs up, more in surprise than any real desire to get away, and one of his hands goes to her hip when her back hits the door frame.  He moves to pull away, but she slides her arms around his neck, completely forgetting her goals of a minute ago as he makes a sexy humming sound against her lips.

He breaks the kiss gently a moment later, raising his head and watching her with a slightly hooded gaze.  “Good morning, Rose.”

“Yeah,” she breathes, snapping her eyes closed and pulling a face when he grins at her.  “I mean, yeah, g’morning.  Yep.”

She ducks away from him, cheeks burning as she lets out a long breath and fans herself.  The sound of his chuckle follows her to the counter, but the thought of his self-satisfied smirk only makes her smile.

Honestly, who wants to be an ice queen anyway?

 


End file.
